


Heat Haze

by lonelywalker



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:58:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Post-S2, Deb and Lundy actually do manage to go ice-fishing in Canada. Things don't remain frigid for very long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Haze

There are many things Debra Morgan finds sexy in this world: guns, thick pork sandwiches, and correctly filled-in witness reports being three quite near the top of the list. Sitting pretty at number one for the moment is Frank Lundy, who has a .45 in his suitcase, cooks for her without her even needing to ask, and seems to regard his own reports as miniature masterpieces. If she would dare to admit it to herself or anyone else, she's pretty fucking much in love with the guy.

Except.

Swept up in the adrenaline and excitement of wrapping the Bay Harbor Butcher case and desperate to keep him around just a little longer, she'd suggested vacationing together. Somewhere sunny that would involve very little clothing and a whole lot of sex. He'd suggested they go ice fishing somewhere unpronounceable. She'd agreed.

Really, the "ice fishing" part of his suggestion should have been a clue, and Deb had quickly discovered that the many ways Frank turns her on pale in comparison to the sheer unsexiness of having numb fingers and toes in the middle of the fucking day.

"You're fidgeting," Frank says.

It's not exactly an ace observation. Firstly, they're in a boat, so every move she makes shakes the entire thing. Secondly, she's the only thing moving for about two miles. Even the fish have gone somewhere warmer.

Deb huffs on her fingers. "How long do we have to be out here?"

"As long as we like." Frank, predictably, looks as though he's precisely in his element. She'd thought it would be strange to go through an entire 24-hour period without seeing him in a suit, but he does khakis and plaid pretty well.

"Okay, let me rephrase." Deb says, employing her most diplomatic skills. "How long do we have to be out here before we get some kind of Navy SEAL survival badge?"

Frank glances over at her, and sets down the fishing rod. "You're hating this, aren't you?"

"Only a… lot."

"I thought you wanted to practice being quieter. Calmer?"

Deb just _looks_ at him. "Yeah, I'm a cop. My life gets a bit crazy sometimes, so a little tranquility is pretty good. But this is fucking ridiculous."

Frank processes this. Grins. "In my defense, you do look adorable in that parka."

Deb is about an inch away from smacking him in the head with a fish.

Back on dry land, things are a little better. She can move around for one thing, and Frank wraps his arm around her waist as they stroll along the long, golden beach. Since they left Miami, the idea of being a real _couple_ has sunk in: falling asleep with her head on his lap in the airport lounge, being mistaken for his daughter in the fishing store, having him hold her hand in public...

It's good, but it's serious too. It's the prospect of being with him long-term, with all the issues his job and their age difference might throw up, and the prospect of never seeing him again after this trip. He could just drift off back to DC or to the next serial killing site, get caught up in the hunt, and assume she's picked up another hottie from the gym.

Positive actions, Debra.

Back at the lodge they're renting for the week, Frank switches on the lights, stokes the fire, and makes her coffee, hot and strong. Neither of them has been checking their phones. Dex can probably survive for a week without her, and Frank had said much the same thing about his daughter. Anything else… Well. Even two workaholics deserve a vacation.

"Feeling better?" Frank asks, sitting down beside her on the couch, and taking her hands between his to warm them. Sometimes he's just so fucking _nice_ she could cry.

What she does do is nod and tug him closer so she can kiss him, her lips lingering on his as her fingers tangle up in his hair. She's wondered once or twice what kind of a lover he might have been when he was her age, but she suspects experience has only made him better. That first time he'd kissed her, sudden and passionate in his kitchen, she'd simply forgotten to breathe. It feels that way again now.

"Frank…" she murmurs, fingers already deftly undoing the buttons of his shirt. "Fuck me. Just... just fuck me."

His grin is a knowing one as he tilts his head to kiss her throat, hands slipping up under her sweater. Just getting off all these fucking _clothes_ takes far too long, the heat swelling in her body far surpassing the warm haze of the fire.

Frank's usually so precise, so tidy, but her sweater falls to the rug with a thump, swiftly covered by his shirt, and then he’s pushing strands of hair from her face, kissing her with lips and tongue and teeth and everything he has.

He gets hard so damn quickly, the heel of her hand rubbing along the fly of his pants as he leans into her, pressing her back against the arm of the couch. For all the time she’s spent with victims and witnesses and criminals, she’s still no good at reading him. How long has he been burning up with this need? Perhaps _that’s_ what had made their time out fishing bearable for him, thinking just what he would do to her when they were back here.

She’d been no good at reading Rudy either. But Frank… Even though they’re out here alone in the middle of nowhere, she knows she’s safe, knows she could ask him to stop and he would.

She doesn’t ask him to stop.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks in a soft whisper by her ear, kissing her cheek as his hand cups her breast under her tank top, stroking the nipple into an aching hardness she can feel right between her legs.

Deb raises her hips without even thinking about it, rocking up against the familiar bulge of his cock, needing just to be _naked_ with him. “Just… god… just…”

She loves the way his eyes smile at her a hell of a lot more than she’s liking this agonizingly slow lovemaking style of his right at this fucking moment. Which is to say, it’s not really her fault at all that she just _grabs_ him and flips him over onto the floor.

It takes a moment for Frank to recover from having the breath knocked out of him and start laughing, but she’s already jerking off his shoes, pulling down his pants, tearing off his underwear. He reaches for her, hand warm and calming on her arm. “Honey, there’s no rush.”

“Tell your fucking cock that,” she says pointedly, wriggling out of her jeans and laying down flat so she can take him in her mouth.

The way he tenses up and sucks in air just before he goes blissfully limp is something she’ll never stop enjoying. He’s pretty much useless afterward if she actually lets him come, fingers and mouth aside, but she wants to feel the heat of him on her tongue for a while, hear the way he moans her name. He’s vulnerable, and it’s not so much that she likes him this way as it is the feeling that he trusts her implicitly. Absolutely.

He’s still slick with her saliva when he pushes inside her, her back against the fire-warmed rug, her legs curled around his hips. And, for a moment, feeling him curve so deliciously inside her, she can relax. But one need is soon replaced by another, one that she knows radiates all the way through him as well, his breathing ragged as his strokes become rougher.

She slips a hand down between them, feeling the force of his passion as her fingers slide over her clit, taking her where she needs to go. She comes around him hard, arching up into him, nails in his back, face pressed to his shoulder. And Frank, god she loves feeling him come, feeling him completely lose control because of her.

“Not going to be able to move in the morning,” he announces several minutes later. She can still hear his heart thundering in his chest, lying half on him, half on the rug, reluctant to leave this circle of heat and sweat and love. “What do you say I take you out to dinner tonight, Morgan?”

“There are restaurants out here?” her thumb playfully drifts over his navel.

“I’m willing to bet there’s at least one in a hundred mile radius, yes. If we’re lucky it might even serve something that isn’t fish.”

“Only if you _promise_ to French kiss me the first time the waiter calls me your daughter.”

Frank chuckles. “Done.”

Time passes. But the fire rages on, and neither one of them even attempts to move.


End file.
